Blood Brothers
by the quitters
Summary: Brothers to the bitter end. [A joint fic by Brunette and moseph.]
1. David I

_Bonjour, dear readers! It's your friendly neighbourhood _Newsies_ fanfiction writer, moseph! Yes, I'm back with a vengeance and, this time, a partner in crime! This charming fic, entitled 'Blood Brothers' (as you know, since you clicked on it) will be co-written by myself (as this chapter is) and the lovely, the stunning...Brunette! So sit back, relax and enjoy all the co-authorship fun!_

_**Disclaimer:** We don't own _Newsies_. Period._

Picture this: New York City at dusk; trails of smoke drift upward, mingling with soft, fluffy clouds painted on an indigo sky; the angry horns of taxis and SUVs play melodically on the ears; the lights are soon to come on, turning a bustling metropolis into a glittering fairyland.

You're an average sixteen year-old girl – smart, social, cute and a bit naïve – on a red tartan blanket spread across an apartment building fire escape, accompanied by a less than average sixteen year-old boy – very smart, slightly socially inept, quirky and cute in a subtle way. There's red wine and soft jazz. It's perfect and picturesque – an absolute night to remember.

And you are wearing a chastity belt made of iron.

I am said less average boy: David Jacobs; Dave or Davey if you must shorten it. You, average girl? You are giving me blue balls.

I'd been seeing Lisa Goodard for two months and, to my great surprise, she's unlike any girl I've ever met.

Let me rewind and give you my little back story.

I am a nerd. Grade A, prime nerd, in the flesh. I was born a nerd, I will die a nerd; any children I spawn are certain to be nerds. My father married a fairly normal woman and produced two out of three average children, but he was certainly the core source of my own nerdiness.

My classmates have always made me painfully aware of my, um, "uniqueness", thus accounting for low self-esteem, introversion, sarcasm, well-developed math skills and a profound appreciation for _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_.

Once, in my childhood, I'd had the thought that I was doomed to spend my entire adult life studying botany, growing a fichus in my closet bedroom in my parents' apartment and conducting very emotional engagements with blow-up sex dolls.

Believe it or not, only half of these ideas came from movies or television. The other half came from my neighbor's son Jamie – twenty-five years old and still living in his mother's apartment, eating Cap'n Crunch at six pm and tormenting his mother's harmless 25 lb cat.

Needless to say, at fourteen years old, on the brink of the emotional core of adolescence, I was not optimistic about my future.

That summer – the summer before my freshman year of high school – I picked up a job at my local ice cream parlor and discovered the beauty of females in the form of Suzanne Winters.

She was as beautiful as a flat-chested, four-eyed, metal-mouth fourteen year-old girl could be; I found her absolutely intoxicating. The way she wielded the ice cream scoop, digging out round, creamy blobs of runny, melted goodness; her lips as she pronounced "double chocolate chip" as only she could; the glint of her braces in the late afternoon sun as she wished customers a pleasant evening – every last inch of her screamed out to be touched. I pined for her all summer long until one day, when she arrived for her two o'clock shift in tears – her beloved Siamese, her precious Minxiboots, was tragically run over by an SUV.

A distraught supervisor asked me to help Suzanne calm down. She followed me (my knees shaking) around the back of the building and tearfully retold the story of her precious feline's death. All it took from me was an arm around her shoulders, a promise of undying support, and an obvious – but subtle! – whiff of her shampoo, and suddenly I was flat on my back, having my powder-blue polyester shirt ripped off by a tear-streaked, grief-fueled Suzanne.

She was needy. She was vulnerable. She wanted me at that exact moment.

Fortunately, I managed to make out a rational thought amongst my mental reactions to all the new physical experiences, and dragged the still horny and raging Suzanne into a supply closet slash closet. I lost my virginity between a giant tub of rocky road and the new shipment of paper cups.

Suzanne moved at the end of that summer, but I knew that I had tapped into something incredible; something few other self-proclaimed nerds, geeks and dweebs knew: that females were humans just the same as any boy. I learned that, when approached by someone kind and caring, the shield came down and they were instantly more vulnerable to the opposite sex.

That was the key to my success.

The discovery didn't turn me into a pimp or anything. It didn't lead to mind-blowing orgies in the girls' locker room (much as I kind of wish it did). But it gave me a strange new confidence and allowed me more high school hookups than I'd ever thought possible.

I'm not a slimeball; I never purposely sought out any drunk, horny party girls in a hookup attempt. I never had a game plan or gave myself points for my conquests. I _never_ did anything against anyone's will.

It just happens to be formulaic. I'm at a party, just observing the action and walking the perimeter; I see a girl who looks pretty, interesting and, okay, maybe a bit tipsy (I'm talking no vomiting, stumbling or slurring; mild verbal diarrhea only). We talk, there's a subtle connection, a bit of chemistry and suddenly, she makes a move. Let her take control, allow her to believe I'm new at this and then, well, it's the stuff teen movies are made of. And while no lasting relationships were born from such trysts, the mutual (though confidential) satisfaction of both parties was unparalleled. Few admitted the experience to their friends and even fewer admitted to themselves that it really was amazing sex (even the drama department diva couldn't fake those screams). One or two even came back for more.

And such was – and is – my life and business. I'm an urbane Seth Cohen, a suave and cunning Xander Harris, a Robin trying on the Batsuit for size. I'm living, breathing proof of the old adage that looks can be deceiving. I'm a hardcore nerd with the sex life of a rock star (in proportions).

So Lisa was proving to be quite frustrating.

When Lisa waked into my AP English class on her very first day at a new school, I barely paid her any attention: cute, yes, but judging by the Lacoste sweater, the pink-tinted pearls and the unnaturally straight hair, she wasn't my type. I'd seen many a type-A overachiever come and go and they were all the same: they appear brilliant, but in reality, everything they know comes from a textbook and they're more interested in a thick wallet than a high IQ. I wasn't rich, but I had brains to spare and I was more interested in an appreciation of intellectual pursuits such as poetry and space sciences than the ability to spell the word 'verbatim' and not understand it. So I wasn't expecting much from Lisa.

My opinion of her changed drastically over the next week. We were paired together to write an abbreviated adaptation of _Othello_ and not only was she familiar with that and several other of the Bard's works, she was able to offer insight and witty lines that I couldn't have done any better. Of course, she did spend a lot of time on her hair and with her cell phone in hand, but there was more to her than met the eye, clearly enough, and I kept her number after the presentation. Still, I wasn't hopeful – I saw her talking to WASP posterboy Dylan Moores and more than likely, she wasn't looking for a nerdy Jewish boy. I expected to never hear from her again.

Again, Lisa surprised me by voluntarily sitting in the seat next to me and chatting with me all period long – no assigned partnership required. Another week of long conversations about Victorian authors, indie music and Thai food and I asked her out for coffee and crappy poetry on a Friday night.

And though it was practically social suicide, she said yes.

It's been two months now and though we've been on many dates and exchanged mix CDs and even did the cutesy photo booth pictures, I've never gotten past first base.

God, I really like Lisa. I care about her. She's more to me than my other hookups. I want to be with her because of who she is, not what she'll do. With her, I can see a future. But damn it, a man – no, scratch that, a PERSON – can only endure so much discussion of a fifth cousin's wedding without asking for SOMETHING in return. Lisas of the world, please – GIVE THE DAVIDS OF THE WORLD A BREAK.

"-and the bridesmaids' dresses, oh my God, they were like pale pale baby blue, almost grayish, and they were like, long with all these, like, blue-ruffley things along the bottom and a gathered neckline and these HUGE –"

I suddenly grabbed her hand. It made her stop. She looked down at my hand, then back to my face with astonished eyes. It was working. Slowly, I brought her hand to my mouth, kissed it gently, then let it drift down to my chest and held it there. I could tell she was feeling the surprisingly firm muscle underneath the thin cotton. When she was stupefied enough from the sudden contact, I pounced.

I pulled her on top, letting her think she was in control, then kissed her – urgently, but gentle enough. She was obviously surprised at both the act itself and the quality of the kiss, and I knew that if I could keep her quiet long enough to whisper a sweet nothing or two, her panties would be mine.

She was giving in. She was allowing herself to kiss back and my hands to wander – through her hair, down her back, up her sweater…

As if my hands were icicles, she jumped away from my touch and disentangled our tongues.

"David!" she cried, more out of surprise than indignation. Time for the romantic virgin act.

"I'm sorry," I simpered, trying to sound truly apologetic. "Just, with all the talk of weddings and the beautiful weather, I…I couldn't help myself. I honestly don't want to rush you."

Lisa looked at me with forgiveness in her eyes. "I don't want to wait forever. But I want both our first times to be special."

Okay, I lied to her about my virginity. It felt important to me at the time – that she feel safe and comfortable with me, like I wouldn't take advantage of her, because I honestly wouldn't – and I was now beginning to regret it. Though another person's virginity isn't something I would think lightly of, I was wondering if she might have been more inclined to go further with a more experienced boy. Plus, all this dilly dallying around, pretending to be all chaste and innocent, was annoying.

But, okay, Lisa was still a virgin and needed her time to process things and I had to respect that and her limitations and all.

Really, though, she wasn't the _slightest_ bit tempted? The wine was seriously doing _nothing_? I got _no_ points for the romantic date?

We lapsed into silence; Lisa sipped her wine and focused her gaze somewhere in the distance. She was looking a bit flustered, and with good reason – I happen to be an excellent kisser.

A slow, romantic song began and my inner romantic hero got the best of me – I studied her face and body with reverence. Another reason that her chastity was so difficult for me was because she was so, for lack of a better term, _hot_. Without going into too much detail, she had the kind of curvy body that most girls longed for: ample bosom and alluring hips, teeny waist and shapely legs. She was on the short side – I'm average for my age and she was a good two inches shorter than me. She had simple enough features – wide brown eyes, small nose, cute, round lips – but knew how to highlight them. Though she often straightened her auburn hair and pulled it into a prim ponytail, her natural hair (which I'd only seen twice) was a mass of sex curls – the kind that your fingers would get tangled in a fit of passion. Her personal style was a bit too Oxford wannabe for me, but it projected the image she wanted and honestly, it worked for her – she looked good in those pencil skirts and fitted sweaters.

After she'd collected herself, she took her eyes off the sunset and looked down at the blanket we were sitting on, her fingers winding a thread around and around. A lock of hair – currently wavy – fell into her face and she brushed it away. "I've been talking about myself all night." Her eyes struggled toward me and she blushed. "You must be so bored."

Her fingers were moving frantically. I placed a hand over hers and stopped their movement. "Not really."

We locked eyes. A gust of wind tousled our hair, the music swelled and the sun finally dipped behind the clouds.

This time she needed no coaxing. I finally made it to second base.


	2. Jack I

_Author's Note: Yeah, so guess what? Because I suffer from an inferiority complex, I find it necessary to do my own little plug. C'est moi, Brunette ... and, the next chapter! Yay! And now, it's time to tune in to our favorite cowboy, and I don't mean Kenny Rogers ..._

* * *

"So picture this --" 

I sighed, and just let Spot go on his schpeel. I was sick of arguing with him at that point. He's the only guy in our whole freaking class from Brooklyn, and he wonders why nobody agrees with him about the Mets being awesome. I like Spot and all—we been friends since I don't know when—but ever since he was in kindergarten he's been flapping his gums about his blue and orange boys when he _knows_ that ain't gonna go over here in Yankeeland.

I pretended to keep listening to him but instead I turned up the volume on my iPod. He's too convinced he's right to notice, and I only had the earphone in the one ear besides.

The ride to Pulitzer Academy is usually about twenty minutes on the city bus, and me and Spot have been taking the bus together since we was six years old. Most of my friends since grade school catch the bus; there's a couple, like Dave and Les whose parents drop them off. But what are they supposed to do? They weren't really raised on it like all of us was. The Jacobs kids are so suburbia, it ain't even funny. But that's nothing against them. David's a good friend of mine, even if he can't hit a baseball to save his life.

"Ahh, go back to Brooklyn!" Racetrack's pissed off, and a couple guys toss their crumpled-up homework at Spot. Usually I'd be doing the same thing—in on the action. Not too many people would mess with Spot Conlon for too many reasons, but not defending the Yankees is like...it's like...well it's just something you gotta do. Even if it _is _Spot Conlon who's saying it.

I couldn't really focus that morning, though. I mean, alright, I'm usually pretty out of it in the morning anyhow. I ain't what you call a morning person. But usually if we're talking baseball, or girls, or...you know, something interesting like that, I can get in on it. That morning, I had Spot Conlon yapping in one ear and Johnny Cash talk-singing like he does in the other, and I wasn't really listening to either one.

The night before I got this call from Sarah Jacobs. Sarah's David's older sister, and she graduated last year and went off to UIC for college. I still can't figure out why anybody would bother going all the way to Chicago when we got colleges here in New York. But then I ain't going to go to college at all, so maybe there's something about the whole deal I just don't get. But, anyway, Sarah calls me for the first time in, I don't know...months, probably. See, we dated on and off last year; she thought it was pretty serious, I don't know how she came up with that. I mean, no offense or anything, but I'm seventeen years old. I ain't exactly picking out flowers and kids' names just yet. But she called me up to see how I was doing and all, and it was just...weird. Usually, when a chick gets all huffy and calls me an immature jerk and says "I never want to see you again," I don't hear from her.

So I guess I wasn't really expecting her to call me up.

It was like 2:30 in the morning. I was still awake, trying to write this bogus history paper—which, by the way, I still didn't have done as I was riding on the bus—but not really in the whole thinking mood. And then my phone starts ringing, and I pick it up, and it's Sarah. And...she's drunk. Really, really wasted, you know? And she's kinda slurring her words together and saying shit that don't make sense, and I'm trying to talk to her, but then I'm so tired that I know I sound like a dope, too. I think I just hung up on her finally, but I don't really remember. There's a good chance I just fell asleep or she passed out on the other end. But it all made me think, I guess. I mean, not really the conversation, 'cause I'm pretty sure it was stupid. But just hearing Sarah's voice again made me think about her, and then it made me start to think about other girls, too.

See, I'm not a moron. I know I don't got a lot going for me. I ain't smart. I don't get good grades and I'm not going to college. My dad's in jail and I been living in foster homes since I was four. I don't have money and, unless I win the lottery or something, I never will have too much. Somewhere between lighting up a cigarette and missing curfue by a couple hours I managed to piss off every father in a twenty-five mile radius, so most of the adults don't care for me much, either. So I rely on what I got, which is a handsome mug and a shit-ton of "charm." That's what Sarah used to call me—"Prince Charming"—only when we was alone, of course, and only because I was afraid she wouldn't put out if I didn't let her use some lame-ass pet name. When we broke up, she said something like, "You really are Prince Charming! You've had Snow White, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and every other Disney movie slut!" And, yeah, it was a pretty dumb thing to say, but I guess she's right in her own way. Sarah wasn't the first "princess" I had.

It's always the princess types, too. The cheerleaders, the Homecoming queens, the part-time models—I've had them all. Straight-lacers who all think they're frickin' Marissa Cooper and want to piss off mommy and daddy by dating the "wrong guy." They all make the honor rolls and own something from Chanel (which I guess is a big frickin' deal?) and think it'd be awesome if "our song" was "Uptown Girl" by Billy Joel. And I ain't saying there's anything the matter with the girls. I mean, let's face it—we're both using each other. That's the whole point. We both know I'm never gonna have a credit card big enough for them to seriously think about any commitment beyond a couple weeks.

Sarah was that general type, too. But then it went more than 'a couple weeks, and then I start to figure out maybe our thing means something real to her. And I guess I really didn't know what to think about it at the time, except that I needed to get the hell out before she dragged me to Cartier and pointed out a rock. But now...Well, at least that morning, thinking about how she'd called, I wasn't so sure. I always knew in my head I wasn't gonna marry a Sarah Jacobs...to be honest, I don't really think about what kinda girl I want to marry, anyway. I don't think I should get married. I don't think it would be a good idea.

I got this...problem, I guess. It ain't really my fault, it's just...what happens. I tend to...Well, there's no way of really saying it to make it sound okay. But I guess here it is. I make mistakes with girls that ain't...mine. I mean, okay. Picture this. You's a pretty, neighborhood girl. You don't own nothing from Chanel, but you look just as good in a tight T-shirt and jeans, and you know it. And your boyfriend leaves to go pick up some booze from his buyer, and it's just you and this neighborhood boy, sitting on the couch watching TV. It's just the two of you, staring at the screen, maybe making a stupid joke about Flava Flav's clock. And maybe you laugh a little too long, and you look over at this boy, and suddenly ... you start making out. He's got his hand up your shirt and you got your hand down his pants, and everything's just fun and fast until you hear the door upstairs open, and someone coming down the stairs. So you jump away from each other and try to act normal.

I'm that boy.

I mess around with all my friends' girls. It ain't like I plan it out, or try to flirt around with them or anything. Hell, half the time I try to just stay away from them altogether. I ain't exactly proud of the fact that I can't be left alone with a good-looking girl for ten minutes and keep my hands off her. Skits caught me one time. It wasn't with his girl, so he wasn't totally pissed, but he never left me and any of his girls alone together, either. I don't know. I guess it's the same as with the straight-lacers; we're just using each other. Everybody's looking for a cheap thrill, and I'd be lying to say I ain't.

But the morning after Sarah Jacobs called me, I started to think about things different. 'Cause Sarah really did like me--and it scared me when I figured it out. It scared me to think I was breaking somebody's heart--really hurting them, you know? And it scared me because I didn't want the same thing happening to me. Right now, I'm kinda scared that it is.

You know David Jacobs? He's one of the best friends I got. We didn't start out that way; we don't exactly got what you'd call common interest. He was a dork, you know. He did good in school and all the teachers liked him, and I figured he was a prick. But then I started failing trig, and the teacher said I had to get a tutor. He made Dave help me out 'cause he thought a female student would be too "distracting." Like the pizza-faced math girls were really my type. But Dave helped me out a lot. He invited me to his house to do homework and have supper. And this is nothing against my foster parent -- Kloppman's a great guy -- but I'd never had a sit-down supper with a mom and dad and everybody sitting around the table, asking about school and work and that Brady Bunch crap. It was really ... I don't know. It was cool I guess. Dave had something I never had, but it was like he was willing to share it with me. Like he wanted to. David's been one of the nicest people in my life, and that's saying something.

And he's dating this girl Lisa.

And usually, Lisa would be nothing all that special in my book. I mean, yeah, she is cute. But she's the type. She's Barbie with red hair. She ain't exactly the Angelina Jolie of Pulitzer Academy, okay? But it's just ... when she smiles, and when she tells a joke, and when she's listening to you ... I don't know. Something in her eyes, maybe. And I know this all sounds real stupid. But something about that girl messes me up a little bit.

"Jack -- Jack, did you see that?"

Racetrack was poking at me, and I stopped thinking. "What?"

"That girl," he was talking really fast, like it was a big deal. "That girl on the corner. Did you see her?"

I shook my head. I thought his head was gonna explode just sitting there.

"She looked like frickin' ... frickin' ... what's-her-name. On _Transformers._ The really hot one."

"Megan Fox," Spot let him know real quick.

I just sighed, glancing at the street number as we went over an intersection. It was still gonna be another five minutes or so. "I didn't see her."

But I can't mess around with Lisa. I _can't,_ and I got two good reasons why. A, the girl's going out with Dave, and Dave's done a lot for me that -- no offense to the other guys -- a lot of my friends wouldn't do. Besides that, it's Dave. That whole _40-Year Old Virgin_ thing? Might just be in his future. He needs to get laid, and I ain't gonna be the one to screw things up for him. At least I don't want to be. Second, I ain't so sure, if something ... happened with Lisa, that I could just walk away afterwards. And maybe I am an immature jerk, but I just ain't ready for that. As long as I can walk away, I'm fine. I'm free. The girls go back to their boyfriends and nobody gets hurt.

The bus pulled up to the stop, about a block away from the school, and Race and Spot was talking baseball again. I turned off my iPod; no reason to run the batteries dead if I ain't listening to it, and followed behind them. Mush and Blink caught up to me, shoving each other and trying to tell some stupid blonde joke. I tried to stop thinking -- tried to just listen to whatever dumbass thing my friends were going on about today. I tried to just focus on baseball --

"Hell do you mean, Cano's no fuckin' good at second base?!"


	3. David II

_Author's Note: moseph again, hitting y'all up for some reviews. The little number '2' is looking really sad. _

"Sorry, dude!"

I massaged my undoubtedly bruised shoulder as a scrawny sophomore, swimming in baggy jeans and a Yankees jersey, kept running past me. Either I've become invisible without my knowledge or the students at Pulitzer Academy really have no regard for hallway safety. I'd lean towards the latter; it wouldn't be the first or last time someone charged past without taking note of casualties.

My eyes scanned the wide hall, looking for a familiar face. Almost no luck; the place was overrun with freshmen, including my own brother Les, right in the thick of the loudest group, surrounded by jersey-sporting jocks and navel-bearing tramps. My little brother, the popularity magnet.

I didn't really resent Pulitzer Academy for its existence, merely as a container of the highest concentration of stupidity, shallowness and self-absorption I've ever witnessed. Such is life; such is high school.

I come from a family of regularities. My parents were high school sweethearts, married at nineteen and a child at twenty. Neither of them came from money; my dad was a blue-collar worker, a janitor at a private school upstate, and they could only afford a teeny apartment in the outer boroughs. I followed two years after Sarah and a lawsuit followed two years after me. Faulty and dangerous cleaning equipment, it turns out, will earn you $2.5 million, not including the cost of the medical bill for the reattachment surgery. We moved to a cozy two-storey in the suburbs, Dad got a job in an office, and my parents celebrated a bit too much. Though I was intended to be the last child, nine months later: welcome home, Les.

Pulitzer Academy happens to be the closest school to my rich, suburban neighborhood, thus filling my dear alma mater with the spoiled children of lawyers, doctors and socialites. Every morning, a fleet of SUVs and sports cars pull up in front of the school, and Mommy or Daddy kiss their precious darlings goodbye. Of course, there are lower-class kids who get bussed in and appear sans Prada bags and Nike shoes, but no one else from "my class" tend to think about them much.

My older sister Sarah blended into this crowd perfectly. Though we had wealth thrust upon us rather than being born into it like the rest of them, Sarah had the JAP (Jewish-American Princess) act down to a science. She dated and dumped every model prototype with a football scholarship at our school before setting her sights on my best friend, the academically- and financially-challenged, yet charming Jack Kelly. I'll give my sister this much: she knows how to get what she wants. Jack was officially hers within two weeks and though she quickly fell for his James Dean act, she hadn't counted on the fact that Jack had been around the block more times than she had and didn't exactly reciprocate her feelings. Though, as the brother, I officially "hate" Jack for breaking my sister's heart, I kind of have to admire his moxie; I'd yet to meet a guy who could cross my sister and get away with it, alive and intact, before Jack.

It seemed, from the look of things, that my brother was following in Sarah's footsteps (though I sincerely hoped he wouldn't try and date Jack). At home, he played the angel, but at school, I rarely saw him without a posse of thick-jawed morons, or a scantily-clad, blandly attractive girl by his side. Les usually bolted to this crowd two seconds after we entered the building together, desperate not to be seen with me. For although Sarah had been suspended twice for "indecency" and I knew that Les was the "unidentified culprit" behind the previous week's false fire alarm, _I_ was the shame of the family.

Several reasons accounted for my unpopularity, my inherent nerdiness not being the least of them. I was truly intelligent, not just a suck-up skilled at memorization (it's true; I skipped third grade). I had a certain regard for authority that was hardly evocative of my infamous elder sister, and though Sarah and Les were known for their good looks, I had neither natural beauty nor the drive to achieve it to match either of them. Of course, to cap all this off and further my isolation from my wealthy peers, I made friends with the guys from the proverbial wrong side of the tracks, a feat accomplished in smaller proportions only by floozies like my sister and self-proclaimed "rebels". Me? I thought they were refreshing.

I turned desperately toward the huge front window, searching for a glimpse of my friends walking to the school from their stop a block away. As if someone was listening, my eyes landed on Jack Kelly, the alpha male of the group and my best friend, rounding the corner, glaring at the annoyingly bright sun as he strode toward the red brick building. The rest of the guys followed: Spot and Race, arguing heatedly, probably about baseball, and occasionally smacking each other upside the head; Mush and Blink, laughing at their own dumb jokes; and Skittery, holding up the back of the line with his arm around a pretty, but tough-looking, brunette from their neighborhood.

I cast a disapproving glare at my younger brother (who took no notice) as the doors burst open to allow my friends in. A few rich sophomores glanced over to see who had entered and dutifully ignored them; I, on the other hand, walked right over to them.

Jack smiled as I approached. "Hey Davey, what's rollin'?"

"Oh, nothing, just floundering amongst the ignorant populace."

Jack's eyebrows furrowed as he tried to work out what I'd said. He may be my best friend, but he's not the sharpest tool in the box. "Meaning…?"

"I'm drowning in stupid. You?"

Jack shook his head. "Same old, Dave."

Racetrack clamored in front of him, followed closely by Spot. "Hey Dave, what's goin' on," he stated more than asked, then continued before I could answer. "Listen, I got a hypothetical question for ya."

I sighed. "Race, you know I know fuck all about baseball."

Racetrack opened his mouth to respond, but Spot beat him to it. "No, but say Cano's on second! And-"

I rolled my eyes and started walking to my locker, Jack next to me, as the Yankees and Mets fans trailed behind, still arguing. Conveniently, Jack and I were only three lockers apart in the block closest to the front door and our first class. The others veered off toward the staircase, leaving Jack and I alone. There was a somewhat awkward silence that I was reluctant to fill. Jack's face was etched with thought, which wasn't exactly rare for Jack – he was a very internal guy – but made me wonder what was on his mind. We retrieved our books in silence; I was nearly sweating with the effort of keeping quiet. Eventually, I cracked.

"Soooo," I said, as Jack dug far into the back for his history textbook. "How's Kloppman?" Jack's foster parent was more like an older uncle or an extremely spry grandfather, an old softie who often turned a blind eye to Jack's smoking, dating and curfew-breaking. He took a liking to me, probably because I could have been a good influence on Jack. Like I'd ever be able to reform Jack Kelly.

Jack nodded. "He's good. His heart's better."

I nodded back. "That's good."

We stood there nodding like demented bobble head dolls and I was about to start babbling about a Discovery Channel show I'd seen just for the sake of talking, when a pair of smooth, coconut-scented hands covered my eyes.

"Guess who?"

Normally, I find this game, and the couples who play it, entirely annoying, but when a hot girl attaches herself to you, you don't complain. I knew it was Lisa; what other girl would publicly associate herself with me? I turned around and saw her face. It had only been nine hours since we'd parted, but she looked delighted to see me, as if I'd been overseas for the past nine months. It was somewhat unnecessary, but kind of nice. Aw hell, really nice.

"Hey gorgeous," I said, planting a sweet, respectful kiss on her cheek. She grabbed my arm as I pulled away and held me there.

"Hey you," she breathed, planting a less respectful kiss on my lips. I was never one for public displays of affection, but hell, this is awesome. I opened my eyes; hers were still closed. I thought longingly of the previous night, alone on the rooftop… but her eyes eventually opened and I shook away other thoughts to focus on her.

"Listen, I'll be busy at lunch today," she told me, "but I'll be around after school if you want to… walk me home." Her tone was laced with innuendo. God, sometimes I love my life.

"Hmm, let me think." I pretended to think for about half a second. "Yeah, you know, I think I'm free."

She beamed. "Great. I've got to get to calculus. Bye, David. Bye, Jack." As if taking notice of my best friend's presence for the first time, she held herself back and pecked me quickly before dashing to the staircase. I glanced at Jack; his lips were pressed together very tightly. I immediately felt guilty for the scene he'd just witnessed, though looking back on all the times he and my sister made out at lunch, at my house, at his house, in the front hall, by our lockers and just about everywhere caused my guilt to fade.

Jack slammed his locker door with an air of unwanted frustration and I gripped the edges of my binder more tightly. I still had no idea what was bugging Jack and knew that I would have to drag it out of him. I'd known Jack since I tutored him when we were sophomores; it took us a while to warm up to each other, but he passed trigonometry and asked me to hang out with him and his friends on a Friday night. Commence lifelong friendship. I knew Jack better than most guys, but even I had a hard time getting him to talk about himself or his problems. It wasn't that he was macho, it was that Jack never wanted to burden anyone. Jack was the There For You guy. Jack was the guy who would stand behind you in a fight, who would drive you back to his place when you were hammered drunk and puking everywhere and couldn't go home like that at two in the morning (which never happened, by the way), who would rescue pretty girls at parties from potential molesters.

But Jack was very private about his home life and his feelings, and though I could almost hear him wrestling with something in his mind, I let it go. If I needed to know, he would have told me.

The first bell rang and my younger brother moseyed past, his posse falling into step behind him. I watched him go, a joke forming in my mind, but Jack's mood prevented me from speaking it aloud.

I sighed heavily. It was going to be a long fucking day.


End file.
